For Your Thoughts
by Bladelover
Summary: A customer in Joe's bar, tormented by loss, makes an unexpected impact on a certain cranky old Immortal. COMPLETE.


_AN: All these canon characters are belong to Davis/Panzer. I made up some stuff of my own, but I ask nothing in return, nor will I receive anything, so that works out rather well._

He was in a foul mood before he walked into Joe's bar, a very foul mood. People had been getting on his nerves all day. Noisy neighbors had interfered with his reading. An apathetic clerk had made a bookstore experience unpleasant. Someone had beaten him to the parking place near the bar and he'd driven around the block for ten minutes waiting for another.

All he wanted was some good beer and to be left alone.

Methos found an empty table and plopped into a chair. The place was busy, and he fumed a little as he waited for five minutes before a server – a girl he'd not seen before – came to take his order.

Another ten minutes went by before Joe himself delivered the draft. "Sorry for the wait," he said wearily. Despite himself, Methos couldn't help noticing that the Watcher seemed uncustomarily morose.

"What's with you? Seem a bit down in the mouth."

Sighing, Joe gestured with a nod at a table in the corner of the room. Methos looked in that direction. At the table sat a middle-aged woman, nicely dressed, all alone, lost in what appeared to be some very sad thoughts. "What? She's not causing trouble, is she?"

"No, nothing like that." Joe sat down, not noticing Methos' slight shift of irritation at being joined without an invitation. "That is Cicely Hargis. She and her husband Tom used to come in once a week. Since he died, she comes in only on certain occasions. His birthday, their anniversary, Valentine's Day…"

"And what's today's occasion?" Methos sounded very bored.

"The anniversary of Tom's death. The worst of 'em all."

"Makes sense."

"No, it's more than that. It's got to do with the circumstances." Joe leaned closer, clearly intent on telling Methos the whole story. The old immortal didn't bother to conceal his lack of interest. "You see, he died in a car accident after work. He was in a part of town that wasn't on his way home. A coworker died in the crash, too. A female coworker."

"Having an affair."

"Well, no one knows for sure. None of their friends or coworkers knew of anything going on between them. And there wasn't really any evidence one way or the other. Just the two of them dead in his car. It's possible he was just giving her a ride home."

Methos glanced back at Cicely, sitting stiffly in the corner, looking nicely coiffed and utterly bereft. As he watched, she picked up her drink and took a large swallow, then continued to stare at the table.

"But the doubt is just eating her up," Joe continued. "It's been three years now, and she's getting worse, not better."

"Well, what can y'do?" Methos was ready to drop the subject. Joe clearly was not.

"Wish I _could_ do something. Give her some comfort, some peace. You know, some sign that would let her know Tom never stopped loving her. Somethin' like that."

Methos noticed the server who'd taken his order responding to Cicely's gesture for service. The server left and quickly returned with a new drink. Methos frowned peevishly, remembering how long he'd had to wait for his beer.

Following his eyes, Joe looked chagrined. "Damn. This is the most I've ever seen her drink in one night."

"Cut 'er off."

"I will if she orders another. Fortunately, she always takes a cab."

"Lot of bloody attention for such an infrequent customer."

Joe glared at the old immortal as though really seeing him for the first time that evening. "Well, 'scuse me for bein' human. And she may be infrequent, but she pays in full every time she comes in. You plannin' on settling _your_ tab tonight?"

Methos reached into his pocket and dumped a crumpled bill and some change on the table. "Looks like… two dollars and eight-seven cents. That cover it?"

Joe snorted and waved the money away. Methos scraped it off the table into his hand and back into his pocket. When he looked back up, Joe was staring at him intently.

"I feel sorry for you, Methos."

"Me, too. I've been out of beer for almost five minutes and no one even cares."

Joe smirked, caught the server's attention and gestured at the empty stein, then turned back to his friend, arms folded. "I mean, you go through life avoiding entanglements, keeping people at arm's length. You can't even stop long enough to sympathize with someone in pain. That may keep you comfortable, but I think it dilutes the experience of living."

"Look, Joe, I came in here for a beer and some solitude, not to get all maudlin over someone's tale of woe." As his beer was delivered, he glanced back at Cicely, still dignified and desperately unhappy, and added, "Too bad she can't just let go of it. Does no good to grieve endlessly."

"Well, most of us just can't control that," Joe said, looking back at Cicely as well. The server again responded to her wave, and Joe stiffened, then relaxed as it was clear that she'd asked for the check.

"Thank God. Didn't wanna have to tell her I couldn't serve her any more. Watch when she tips – she always leaves a single penny on top."

Methos looked blankly at him, shaking his head slightly. Joe explained, "That's a customer's way of telling the waitress that the service was excellent."

"I suppose that came in handy before language was invented."

Ignoring the quip, Joe said, "It was something Tom always did. That's how they met – she was a waitress in a restaurant. He left a penny on top of the tip with a note with his phone number."

"How do you know all that?"

"Tom told me the story lotsa times. After he died, Cicely told me that the penny had become kind of a symbol of his feelings for her. She'd find a single penny in odd places all the time – on the kitchen counter, under her pillow, on a shelf. Said that was one of the things she missed most."

"Cute. Seems like it should've kept up with inflation, though. A dime, even a quarter."

Standing up, Joe expression betrayed distaste and impatience. "I gotta get back to work. You need another?"

Looking at his nearly empty stein, Methos shook his head. "I think I've had enough."

"Fine. See ya." Joe limped off toward the bar.

Draining the glass, Methos stood and started toward the door, his mood not improved. As he did so, Cicely – who was making her way carefully between the tables – stumbled and lost her footing, falling onto an empty table. Moving to her, Methos asked, "Are you all right?"

She looked up at him. Misery was clearly etched into her eyes, into her whole expression. He had never felt sillier for asking that question. All right was the last thing Cicely Hargis was.

"Fine, thank you." Her voice was cultured, even with the alcoholic slurring. "I'm sorry; I'm a little clumsy tonight." He helped her stand erect, noting how elegantly her gray hair had been knotted at the nape of her neck. She reached back to smooth some stray strands, but her dexterity was somewhat impaired. He smoothed them for her, and she smiled at him with watery eyes. Smiling back, he excused himself, waved at the approaching and concerned Joe, and fled the bar.

"You okay, Cicely?" Joe asked, glancing over his shoulder at the departing immortal.

"Yes, Joe. Could you call me a cab, please?" She kept her eyes on the floor, and Joe realized that she was ashamed of having fallen.

"Already done," Joe said gently. "Should be here any second."

Later, back in her home, Cicely sat in the bedroom she'd shared with Tom for almost thirty years. She'd changed into her nightgown, but hadn't had the energy or motor control to shower. The only thing she intended to bother with was letting her hair down. She lowered herself onto the chair at her dressing table with some difficulty and reached for the pins that held her hairstyle together.

Tom had loved her long hair, which was the only reason she'd never cut it, even after his death. She supposed it shouldn't matter, but somehow…

She was startled by a sharp sound, like something hitting the hardwood floor. With her hair now loose and wavy around her shoulders, Cicely followed the sound with her eyes.

A single penny rolled toward the bed, stopping when it hit the braided throw rug at the side. How on earth had it gotten into her hair? Picking it up, Cicely stared down at it, then clutched it in her hand and hugged it to her chest. Falling to the bed, she sobbed, still clutching the penny, the long-awaited sign.

In the midst of her weeping, Cicely's heart stirred, but not in pain. Finally, she was finding some comfort.

In another part of town, Methos prepared for bed. Before tossing them aside, he reached into the pocket of his trousers and removed two dollars… and eighty-six cents.


End file.
